Linchpin
by Rinaty
Summary: Some things were always meant to happen to America, even when he wasn't Alfred F. Jones. AU/ One-Shot/ Mild Cursing and blood/ 2P


**Linchpin**

* * *

The rain hardly mattered as it soaked his uniform because America knew he stood upon the threshold of something that would shape the world's future. He peered through brown bangs down the long barrel of a riffle that was aimed at his chest, otherwise aware of nothing more than the soldier's red coat. Simply by arriving unannounced, he very well could have signed his death warrant if his elder brother so chose. A pale hand waved the weapon down and the man he had come to see stepped out into the stormy night.

"Have you come to put an end to this ridiculous nonsense?" America tucked his chin into his chest at the harsh tone. Once vibrant crimson had turned to brown across his shirt where he had held the leader he had so desperately needed. Washington had gripped his collar in a shaking fist, all but begging America to promise to keep going and not give up. While the river's chilly water soaked his pants, America had been forced to wonder why he should listen. Leaderless and alone, he had nothing to keep him going. Hell, less than a measly third of his people even wanted to break away from the very beginning. Now their numbers were even smaller.

A ghost of his trademark grin flickered across his lips as he thought back on the short lived rebellion. Dumping the tea into the harbor honestly hadn't been his most mature idea, but it had gotten his point through his brother's thick skull. He had laughed as the Son's of Liberty cheered while the boxes splashed in the water. They had yelled out endless taunts when the soldiers that were meant to watch over the goods came out of their beds, screaming for them to stop. It was then that America knew that his people should have the option to chase after their own happiness.

Men more determined than any he had known had fought so hard up on that hill; threw everything they had at those that would not let go. Time and time again the foreign men had fallen only to be replaced with those just as willing to give up their lives for their country. America had been forced to wonder if Britian was fighting so hard for him or for the riches of his land. A land where brave men and women would not simply lie down in surrender, but would struggle until their last breath. They had too.

"America!" He jerked at the shout, taking one step back as his fight and flight instincts warred with each other. Perhaps he had been wrong in coming here during his moment of weakness; maybe it was best if he followed through with his actions. It had been Britain that had once told him that a true gentleman never went back on his word. Yet, he had never possessed the patients to learn how to be a true gentleman.

"I..," his breath froze as he looked up into those hard blue eyes, meeting the impatience with a timid glare. Could he ever be okay with himself if he walked back to Britain's side like another of his mindless dogs? There were so many under the country's thumb; by leaving Britain, he would prove that it was not impossible. America's victory over the country that had protected them could be the catalyst that could cause revolutions upon revolutions. Surely, Ireland and Scotland would not put up with the British Empire's shit if they knew they could leave.

He was also hurting Britain with this war; he was not so blind to not see that. With all of his attention focused on not losing America, it was unlikely that the Brit would be able to protect himself from another nation. The longer the rebellion dragged out, the more possible it was that Britain would be attacked from the outside of their quarrel. America knew that the stubborn fool wouldn't give up even if it meant he would be fighting two separate battles.

"You're not giving up, are you," Britain's softly spoken words reached him despite the heavy rain and America was unsure how to answer that. Did it really appear that he was confident that he could win? Of course not, his hands had not stopped trembling since he had left the bloodbath near that river. It should have been the place of victory, but somehow the redcoats had known they were coming.

"You knew," he swallowed around the lump in his throat at the Brit's raised brow, "At the river. You knew." The looked of realization upon Britain's face lessened until it had been replaced by one of resignation.

"I did, but what could you expect me to do with that kind of information? Pretend that I had never learnt of it?"

"Yes," he surprised both of them with the power of that one word, "Yes, I would have hoped you wouldn't have taken advantage and slaughtered my people so!"

"America," the older nation looked at the ground on his right while one hand played with the end of his muddy sleeve. "War is an art that I have had centuries to perfect. You do not let opportunities pass you by; you can't let sentiment get in the way."

"Sentiment?! You raised me!" America could hear the utter disbelief and pain in his own words, but it couldn't stop him, "I was there, did you know that?"

Britain kept his mouth firmly shut in an attempt to keep the answer to himself. America, however, saw through his ploy. The broken chuckle dragged those blue eyes back to the colony, "America."

"Are you so eager for me to experience my first death that you would go to these lengths?"

"That's not it-"

"Fine," a steady hand reached behind his back, retrieving a small dagger. It was nothing more than a pointed rock attached to a wooden handle, but it was nearly as sharp as anything Europe could produce. Brown eyebrows pinched together at the gift his other people had presented him with long before Britain, Spain, or France had come across the ocean. The Americans that were now in near constant war with the white men had been the reason he came into existence.

America toyed with the knife as he thought about it. He wasn't really a nation, but did that mean he would not come back to life as the others always had? Would his people be happy to know that they were not leaving Britain? No, not _his_ people. _His_ people would continue with the rebellion even after he had died. Not even the death of Washington or their not-quite nation would be able to slow them down. The last American would die with his or her head held high, shouting that they should be given liberty or death.

He spun the blade expertly between tan fingers as he often did when deep in thought, before plunging it deep into his abdomen. Britain shouted at him, but he could not hear his words through the rushing in his ears. The pain was unexpectedly duller than he would have thought. Icy hands were on his shoulders, keeping him from crumpling completely just yet. America looked up to tell Britain to go and jump off the nearest bridge when his words soured in his throat.

Eyes wide in shock and terror, mouth spewing apologies; American still recognized the man. A loyal solider who was always tending to the wounded with his lips in a firm line collapsed to the earth with the personification of his could-have-been nation. He had left to tell the Brits of Washington's plans in the vain hope of putting an end to all this bloodshed; he hadn't known that his mother country would destroy his fellow men.

"Fucking Turn-Coat," the words forced the man the flinch, giving America the chance to stab the knife under his ribs. Red bleed between his fingers and the chilly hands dropped from his shoulders. America's dagger found the gaps in the man's rib-cage time and time again to the tune of gasping curses. He had been betrayed by one of the people he had trusted. No, by two people he had trusted despite the battles going on around them.

"A-america," the scent of freshly baked scones yanked the brunette back from his red fogged mindset. Blood stained fingers were knotted in his shirt and he looked indifferently into a pale face shrouded in strawberry blond hair. "What have you d-done?"

"Killed...a fucking...traitor," his tongue was heavy in his mouth and his eyelids slid to half-mast. Idly he noticed that the rain had stopped, or perhaps he just could not feel it any longer.

"Its o-okay," those fingers brushed through the tangles in his dark hair, "I give up. That's it; you're a country now. Aren't you happy?"

America's lips moved, but no sound came out. Britain hummed lightly in question, bending lower to hear better. "Its...too late, ya...know?"

Blue eyes widened in surprise and the older country jerked back to stare at his kid brother. Bruised lips quivered as he felt more than saw America's chest halt; his last breath escaped as soundlessly as his life had. Britain pulled the young man closer to him, exhaling into the boy's hair that always reminded him of the forest. He had lost America in a way that was far more painful, permanent than death. He did not fear for he knew that the boy would rise again.

Thunder clapped in the background, but all Britain wondered was if there had been a way he could have kept America with him. All he had wanted was his little brother's loyalty.

* * *

**Author's note:** Well, that mostly came out of nowhere, but I love it. I've recently fallen into the whole 2P thing, and I've come up with how I think they really are. This would be the turning point in America's personality, being betrayed and all that. I'm not a believer in the whole 'born evil' thing, so this is my explanation of what made 2P!America so...cruel.


End file.
